


The Myriad Ways

by Nemesis Adrasteia (Phantom_Midge)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Elementary (TV), Hark! A Vagrant, Kill Bill (Movies), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Canonical Character Death, Crack Pairings, Crack Treated Semi-Seriously, Dimension Travel, Dreams, Drunkenness, F/F, Identity Issues, Metafiction, Multiple Crossovers, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-06 20:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantom_Midge/pseuds/Nemesis%20Adrasteia
Summary: Dreams, as a general rule, do not follow real world logic. This can be a nuisance when your dreams have a tendency to intrude upon reality.(Revised version. Written in 2015, for the most part.)





	1. Androids Dreaming of an Interdimensional Watson Convention

**Author's Note:**

> I fully admit that this thing doesn’t have much in the way of plot and is mostly an excuse to explore concepts I think are cool.

When Joan Watson is ten years old she has a very odd dream in which her best friend is an android in a deerstalker cap and they have all sorts of wonderful adventures inside an improbable computer program. She doesn't realize it's a dream until halfway through, when she suddenly remembers that she is a little girl with functioning eyes, not an adult man who can only see because of the VISOR he wears (and she somehow knows it is VISOR, not visor; all capitalized). Just before the dream ends, the android looks at her and suddenly is not an android anymore, and before she has a chance to ask why that is, he is shoving a sweater in her face and saying, "Look alive, Watson!"

When she wakes up there is no VISOR and no android, or ordinary human who used to be an android. There is a sweater, but it's much uglier than the one in her dream.

"That was weird!" she says to no one. She's thinking of writing down the details of the dream so she won't forget them, but then she looks at the clock on her nightstand, and unless the clock is lying to her she has to leave right now or she'll be late for school. She tries to hold onto the dream all the while she gets dressed, rushes out the door, and hops onto the bus, but dreams are slippery things, and by the time the bus has reached its destination her hold on this particular dream has become lax. Lax enough for all but the most vivid parts to slide out of her brain, through her ears, and splash onto the gum-strewn floor of the bus, where they dissolve into aether that will perhaps be recycled into someone else's dreams. By the time the school day is over, she has forgotten the dream entirely.

***

When Joan Watson is a teenager she sometimes looks in the mirror and sees someone who is her, but is not her. He cannot be her, because she is definitely not a middle-aged white man with a moustache, but he is her in all the ways that matter. Somehow.

The first time it happens is right before an exam, the morning after she's stayed up all night studying.

"It must be because I didn't get enough sleep," she says to herself, because that is rational and makes perfect sense. Contrary to popular belief, teenagers are sometimes capable of thinking rational thoughts, though some are more capable than others. Joan likes to think she's quite good at being rational.

The moustached man where her reflection should be is obviously the result of a sleepless night and a little too much caffeine, so it's nothing to worry about.

"It's nothing to worry about," she says out loud, just to reassure herself. The voice coming out of her mouth is unmistakably that of a teenage girl and not a middle-aged man, so the words she speaks must be true. She nods at the man in the mirror, satisfied with her own rationalization, and resumes brushing her teeth.

The second time is when she is very, very drunk.

"I'm okay, y'don't have'ta manhandle me," she mumbles to the significantly less drunk friend who is hauling her out of the bar. They have both unwisely consumed more fermented grain than is healthy for people their age, but unlike Joan, Deborah has not just won a drinking contest against a girl twice her size. Joan may be good at being rational, but she's still a teenager, and teenagers sometimes do stupid things.

"I'm okaaaay," Joan repeats.

"Are you kidding? You're drunk as fuck! Your parents are gonna be so pissed," Deborah whines, dragging her toward their vehicle (commandeered from Deborah's older brother) by the sleeve of her jacket. Joan is not listening to her, because she has just noticed that the ground is wet. Her hair is also wet, and so is Deborah's, because there is water falling from the sky. There's a word for that, but she's too drunk to remember what it is.

Once they get to the car Deborah spends what seems like an eternity rummaging through her bottomless pit of a purse in search of the keys, during which time Joan leans against the rear door and gapes at the ground, which is still covered in sky-water. Rain, she remembers. That's what it is.

"Fuck! Fucking fuck!" Deborah shouts.

The frantic purse rummaging intensifies. Joan snickers, and then she turns her head ever so slightly and catches a glimpse of her reflection in the window of the car. It isn't her own face she's looking at.

"H'lo 'stache guy!" she says to the window.

"HA! Found it!" Deborah holds up the keys triumphantly.

Joan spends the whole drive home looking at her reflection in the window, but she doesn't see the man again. The hangover she undergoes the next morning is sufficient to make her forget she saw him at all.

The third time it happens is smack in the middle of the day, and she is not remotely deprived of sleep, nor is she under the influence of alcohol or any other mind-altering substances. She's trying to do something with her hair that she saw in a magazine; she blinks, and suddenly BOOM, moustache guy. This time she shrieks and drops her comb. The man is gone just as suddenly as he appeared, but the image of him is burned into her mind. She's a bit shaken for the rest of the day.

***

When Joan Watson is twenty years old she finds herself on a boat that is not a boat. It _is_ a boat, but at the same time it's also a bus, an airplane, a dirigible, and a number of other things. Joan thinks that it should be a boat, so that's what she perceives it as. When she peers over the side of the boat she sees a bottomless black river, speckled with drops of yellow from thousands of city lights. The river might actually be outer space and the reflections of the lights might actually be stars, but it's hard to tell; everything is so blurry. The man who is her but is not her is there too. She can't see him, but she knows he's there, hidden somewhere in the thick fog encasing the boat that is not a boat. There are others like him, and each of them is him and she is each of them, which doesn't make one lick of sense, but there you have it.

It's not long before she's approached by one of the men who is her and is not her. He tips his hat to her and says, "You must be Female Watson! It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You know, I was just thinking that is was about time a Female Watson joined our ranks. There's Miss Noraker, of course, but she's only an Honorary Watson. You, on the other hand, are clearly the real deal!"

"How many Watsons are there?" Joan asks, because this is a dream, and in dreams you don't question the strange things people say and do, you just go along with the strangeness like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"There are hundreds of us!" the other Watson exclaims, flinging his arms wide as if trying to encompass all the hundreds of Watsons. "There's us two, obviously, then there's Original Watson, Gay Watson, Stupid Watson, Mouse Watson, Dog Watson, Russian Watson, et cetera, the list is never-ending. For a while we even had a Moustacheless Watson, but he eventually grew himself a moustache after spending some time with a gaggle of dwarves - very preoccupied with facial hair, those dwarves. Now everyone calls him The Watson Formerly Known As Moustacheless. Around the same time he showed up, we also gained Sexy Watson..."

He glances at a nearby Watson who reminds Joan of airships and giant robots and other things you might find in old science fiction serials, though she can't say exactly _why_ he reminds her of these things, or how it's even possible for her to form an opinion of him when all she can see is his back (which admittedly is quite a sexy back).

"At first there was only one of us, the Original," the Watson next to her continues. "Then the adaptations began popping up. Yours is the most recent to come about, but I guarantee you it won't be the last."

"If I'm Female Watson, which Watson are you?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm Android Watson..." he pauses dramatically, then says, "...in the 22nd century."

It is then that Joan realizes that this Watson's body is mostly robotic; only his head appears to be fully human. She wonders why it took her so long to notice this.

"I had an android friend once," she says. "But he didn't stay an android. He turned into a completely different person, and then he gave me a sweater."

"What did he look like?" Android Watson asks.

"I can't remember what he looked like when he turned into someone else, but before that he had yellow eyes and was wearing a sort of hat... I think it's called a deerstalker."

Android Watson's eyes widen, and a light bulb materializes in the foggy air over his incongruently human head.

"Ah, you haven't found your Holmes yet, have you?" He grabs the light bulb and shoves it into one of the pockets of his coat.

"My what?"

Android Watson ignores the question and gives Joan a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll find him - or her - someday. If you're here, the Fates must intend for it to happen."

"Who? Who are you talking about?"

But the dream has already ended. She is lying in her bed, speaking to the ceiling. The ceiling does not respond, obviously.

***

When Joan Watson is forty-four years old she finds herself on the boat that is not a boat yet again, but this time it's not a dream. Everything is much less hazy this time around, and she feels a bit awkward due to being the only Watson present with no moustache. Even Mouse Watson has a tiny mouse moustache. Somehow.

The dream she had twenty-four years ago was so vivid that even now she can remember every detail as though it happened yesterday. Curiously, the detail that stands out the most in her mind is one of the comparatively less bizarre ones; Android Watson telling her she'll find her Holmes someday. This detail is what makes her suspect it may not be a coincidence that her new client is named Holmes, and that now, exactly one month after meeting him, she has ended up on this boat-that-is-not-a-boat after falling through some sort of interdimensional wormhole that magically appeared on the sidewalk in front of her.

Once the initial panic has subsided and she begins to recognize her surroundings, she decides that the best course of action is to seek out Android Watson. Upon locating him and catching his attention, she soon finds herself in the midst of the strangest conversation she's ever had, during which she has to constantly remind herself that this is _not_ a dream.

"I don't think you realize the full extent of our historical and literary significance," says Android Watson. "We aren't just people, Joan, nor are we mere characters. We are an archetype."

"Okay, but I don't see how _we_ are the same character as _him_." She gestures toward Stupid Watson, who is deeply engaged in the act of picking his nose.

Android Watson sighs. "Yes, well, that's the downside of being an archetype. There are infinite variations and interpretations, and it's inevitable that some of those are going to be less than flattering."

"Excuse me, fellow Watsons, I have an announcement to make!" says Original Watson.

All the assembled Watsons immediately cease their activities and pay attention, except for Gay Watson and Mouse Watson. Gay Watson is preoccupied with with hitting on Inspector Javert, who has accidentally stumbled into the wrong interdimensional convention; meanwhile, Mouse Watson scurries around frantically, weaving through dozens of Watson-legs, trying in vain to find a spot where he'll be able to actually see what's going on. Taking pity on him, Joan crouches down and lets him scamper up her arm and onto her shoulder. He squeaks gratefully into her ear.

Original Watson clears his throat and begins to speak.

"It is with a heavy heart that I inform you all of an unforeseen predicament. Due to an infestation of Vermicious Knids in the usual dimension-gateways, our next scheduled gathering will have to be postponed until further notice."

In response to this proclamation, a symphony of sighs, grumbles, and utterances of "oh well," arises from the crowd of Watsons.

"This is certainly a disagreeable turn of events," says Android Watson.

Mouse Watson lets out a disappointed squeak.

"What are Vermicious Knids?" asks Joan.


	2. The One Who Wasn't Watson (and The One Who Killed Her)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of Poison Ivy depicted herein looks like Uma Thurman, who played her in the 1997 movie Batman & Robin, but I imagine her otherwise being more like the comicverse version of the character, hence why this fic is in the "Batman (Comics)" tag.

There is a universe slightly to the left of ours where Sherlock Holmes does not exist in any form. The man who would have been Sherlock Holmes's grandfather died of measles before he could meet the woman who would have been Sherlock Holmes's grandmother, and so the woman who would have been Sherlock Holmes's mother was never born, thus Sherlock Holmes himself was not born. For want of a nail the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe the horse was lost, yadda yadda yadda.

The Fates are very set in their ways by this point, and they have decreed that no Watson shall be without an accompanying Holmes and vice versa (just as no Kirk shall be without a Spock, no Starsky shall be without a Hutch, no Betty shall be without a Veronica, et cetera). After Atropos cuts the thread of life belonging to the boy who should have been Sherlock Holmes's grandfather, she turns to her sisters and says, "Well, now what?"

"Now we've got our work cut out for us, that's what," Clotho says irritably.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," says Lachesis, rolling her eyes.

It's really not that hard to set things right, Clotho just loves to bitch and moan. A shortening of a thread here a lengthening of another there; that's all it takes for there to not be a John Watson, and for the person who could have been another Joan Watson to end up being someone else entirely. For want of a nail, for want of a shoe, yadda yadda yadda.

***

In a universe slightly to the left of ours, a woman named O-Ren Ishii occasionally looks into the mirror and sees a face that looks exactly like hers, but somehow is not hers. She does not know why this is, nor does she particularly care. It is not important. It is not relevant.

That's what she keeps telling herself every day, until the day comes when she can't tell herself anything anymore, because the top of her head has been sliced off and she's on her way to Tartarus.

If O-Ren Ishii had been a Watson instead, things might have turned out differently. But the Fates would not allow it.

In a universe slightly to the right of hers, the woman she could have been still lives.

***

"It's regrettable that I had to kill you," says the woman with the sword.

"You didn't," says Joan, reasonably certain that she is not dead. But can she really be sure of that. Perhaps not? The blank white void they're in doesn't look like any afterlife she's ever heard of, but that doesn't mean it isn't an afterlife of some sort.

"Oh, but I did. I couldn't let you live after what you and the others did to me." The woman with the sword taps the side of her head with her knuckles, producing a sound that can only be made by flesh-coated bone connecting with flesh-coated metal. "It was a matter of honour."

"I meant that you didn't kill me," says Joan. "Maybe it was some other version of me. Did she have a moustache, by any chance?"

The woman with the sword looks at Joan as though she's insane, and she probably is. People are rarely sane when they're dreaming.

"For what it's worth, I apologize for whatever it was I did to you. Well, what the other me did to you."

"You are insane," says the woman with the sword, and then she puts her sword through Joan's heart. It doesn't kill her, because this is only a dream. (Or is it?)

***

In a universe slightly to the left of ours, a woman married a man named Kiddo instead of a man named Isley, and the daughter that resulted from their union was called Beatrix, not Pamela. In this same universe, a former psychiatrist named Harleen is murdered by her lover because she has no best friend to stop him. The person who could have been Harleen's best friend has never met her and now never will. (For want of a nail, yadda yadda yadda.)

***

Joan meets Pamela (who is, but is not Beatrix) when she is twenty years old, not long after she  has the dream with the Watson convention on the boat that is not a boat.

The circumstances of their first meeting aren't especially interesting; there's a mutual friend, an invitation to a social gathering, and some bonding over a shared interest in biology. As the evening goes on, the science talk segues into discussion of other topics, culminating in the formation of a friendship. Their next meeting is equally unremarkable, as is the one after that, and the one after that, et cetera.

It isn't until after they've started dating that the more unusual aspects of Pamela's character become readily apparent, and it isn't until long after they've broken up that Joan realizes exactly what those unusual aspects signified.

***

"You know, I kind of sympathize with them," Pamela says.

"Who, the killer tomatoes?"

They're in Pamela's dorm room (alone, since her roommate thankfully isn't there to bother them), sprawled out on her bed, Joan idly playing with Pamela's hair while half paying attention to the terrible movie they've rented for the sole purpose of mocking it.

"Yeah, I mean..." Pamela turns her head slightly and looks Joan straight in the eye. "Humanity can be pretty horrid sometimes. Most of the time. Can you really blame them for wanting to take us all down?"

Joan considers this for a moment. Is it valid to view _Attack of the Killer Tomatoes_ as a morality tale? Are the tomatoes a form of karmic punishment for humanity's sins? It's certainly an interesting interpretation, and one that warrants further contemplation.

Or not.

"Are you saying the tomatoes are the actual heroes of this story?"

"Maybe they are."

They go back to half-watching the terrible movie.

A few minutes later, Pamela blurts out, "When I conquer the world, I won't have any tomatoes in my army. Too squishy, wouldn't be much use in combat."

Joan laughs, because she assumes Pamela is joking. The possibility that she might be serious does not occur to Joan, because that would be utterly ridiculous.

Years later she sees Pamela in the news. There are flowers in her hair and vines wrapped around her limbs, and her once ordinary skin is now a sickly, venomous green. The anchorwoman is saying something about "genetically altered life-forms" and "hostages" and "witnesses are claiming that the situation was... [blah blah blah something something she's not quite listening because she's still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that _her ex-girlfriend did this_ ] ...if not for Gotham's resident vigilante, the Batman."

Years too late, it occurs to her that Pamela wasn't joking at all.

***

The dreams about the woman with the sword are frequent enough and bizarre enough that she spends a lot of time pondering them, trying to discern what their significance is, if any. Once upon a time she would have come to the conclusion that this was her subconscious way of dealing with the knowledge that she used to date someone who is now a supervillain, but now, knowing what she knows, she isn't so sure. Part of her is tempted to bring it up at the next Interdimensional Watson Convention, maybe ask Android Watson what he thinks about all this, but another, deeper part of her knows that this is much too personal to casually tell anyone, even other versions of herself.

Joan has lost count of how many fights they've had here in this strange, blank dreamspace. She doesn't bother to keep track because she always, always loses. To make matters especially awkward, the woman with the sword is just as keen to make out with Joan as she is to fight with her. 

"I hate you." The woman with the sword lifts a hand and wipes the blood off her lips. Joan, it should be noted, did _not_ bite her while they were kissing; she just suddenly started bleeding out of nowhere.

Joan shoves the woman with the sword off of her, having grown bored of violent canoodling. Her back is pressed up against what feels like a wall, except there is no wall. There is nothing in this white void except the two of them.

"I think I'm supposed to hate you too, but I don't. I'm not sure why."

"Why you don't hate me, or why you think you ought to?" The woman with the sword sounds genuinely interested in obtaining the answer to this question.

"A little of column A, a little of column B..." Joan pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket and blows her nose into it. Just as she is asking herself how on earth that handkerchief got into her pocket in the first place, it transforms into a sword.

"Oh," she says, blinking at the weapon in her hand, "this again."

The sword has a tendency to appear in strange ways, but this is the first time it has materialized from a snotty piece of cloth. She looks up at not-Pamela (who she can no longer think of as "the woman with the sword," since as of now they are both technically women with swords) and asks, "Do we have to keep doing this?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

They fight. It goes on for longer than usual (or at least what feels like longer than usual), and this time Joan actually wins.

Not-Pamela grins at her after she delivers what would have been the killing blow were this not a dream. Her teeth are stained red from the blood pouring out of her mouth and down her chin. Once again, this is not Joan's doing, except maybe it is? In any case, it's probably symbolic of something or other.

"Guess we're even now," not-Pamela says. Before Joan can respond, not-Pamela explodes into hundreds and hundreds of rose petals.

Joan wakes up.

She does not have the dream again.


End file.
